


the scars we share

by A_Confused_Kitten



Series: soul flowers [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Early Mornings, Flowers, Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M, Past Injuries, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires) POV, just. overall a soft fic, soft athos, soft d'artagnan, soft fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten
Summary: Soft light filters in through the window, as the first sign of dawn crawls closer. It’s still dark outside, as far as d’Artagnan can see, but the night is coming to an end, and soon, the masks they wear will be ready to face the world.But for now, d’Artagnan is content in his soulmate’s arms, savoring the warmth inside his chest. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare speak, because if he does, he fears the moment will end.~~A quiet moment before dawn, where thoughts are shared and stories are given.
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: soul flowers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163846
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	the scars we share

The thing about soul flowers, d’Artagnan thinks, is that they’re stories painted on your body, glimpses into the life of someone that could mean so much to you, or maybe nothing at all. 

People see your flowers and try to guess what your marked is like, try and guess what you’re meant to be together, as though it’s any of their business in the first place. Because if the blooms are there for the world to see, then surely, the stories must belong to them as well?

And d’Artagnan _hates_ it. 

The flowers stained against his skin aren’t for the world to see, for strangers to question. 

They’re for his marked, for _Athos,_ who hates the attention the flowers bring as much as d’Artagnan does.

The flowers are for these quiet mornings, or starry nights. For when it’s just the two of them, alone in Athos’ apartment, because the marks are for _them._ The marks are for their stories, and when they’re alone like this, that’s all that matters.

There’s none of the grandeur, none of the glory. There’s no need to be considerate or polite or anything that isn’t _them,_ because they were made for moments like this, for holding each other close and never letting go. 

Because in times like these, they’re together, and to d’Artagnan, that’s all that matters.

Soft light filters in through the window, as the first sign of dawn crawls closer. It’s still dark outside, as far as d’Artagnan can see, but the night is coming to an end, and soon, the masks they wear will be ready to face the world.

But for now, d’Artagnan is content in his soulmate’s arms, savoring the warmth inside his chest. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare speak, because if he does, he fears the moment will end. 

And d’Artagnan isn’t ready for it to be over.

He doesn’t think he ever will be.

“What are you thinking about, my love?” Athos says, his breath ghosting over d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You’re not quiet when you’re worrying, though, I’d rarely call you quiet at all.”

d’Artagnan laughs, soft and loving, because that’s the feeling inside his chest, the way the world suddenly seems brighter. Love, or so that’s what they call it, when your very heart beats for one person, and one person alone. 

“Soulmarks,” he says, his voice loud amongst the silence. “About how people will take one glance at your skin and think they know you, all because of the scars we wear.”

Athos is silent, but d’Artagnan doesn’t say anything more.

Because this silence is the farthest thing from uncomfortable that d’Artagnan has ever known. There’s no stillness, no forcedness, no making up words just to fill the quiet. It’s soothing, in an odd way, or so d’Artagnan thinks, because there’s no pressure to say anything, to _be_ anything.

They’re just simply _being,_ together and as one, and the only way d’Artagnan can describe it is _right._

“Do you want to see them?” d’Artagnan asks, soft and quiet.

Athos takes a breath, and then another, the air warm against his skin. “Of course.”

And d’Artagnan smiles, small and bright and true, and when he sees Athos’ returning grin, his heart feels like bursting. He sits up, the sheets falling from his shoulders, and Athos does the same.

 _It’s like looking in a mirror,_ d’Artagnan thinks, except pale, years old scars are replaced with beautiful lilies, and d’Artagnan still can’t believe that those are made for him. Because they are lovely and soft and _fragile,_ things that he has never been, and yet-

And yet for years, they have decorated Athos’ skin, intertwining scarlet blooms that reflect his every injury. 

“Ask me anything,” d’Artagnan says, before the words slip through his thoughts. “Anything at all.”

Athos merely hums, nodding his head, but he hears the words left unsaid. Hears _I trust you_ and _I love you_ and _I’m never leaving you._

Gentle hands dance over his skin, touching the gladioli he knows all too well, and the pale scars he doesn’t. Hands, calloused from years holding a blade, but gentle all the same, because Athos’ touch is nothing but.

No one ever expects Athos to be gentle like this, to be _soft_ like this, and maybe that’s why d’Artagnan loves it so much. Because it’s not something the world gets to lay eyes on, not something the world gets to claim.

This side of Athos is for moments like this, and God, d’Artagnan loves it. 

He loves the feeling of gentle fingers running through his hair, of careful hands tending to his injuries, of that caring gaze as the injuries begin to heal, and the flowers begin to fade from Athos’ skin. He loves the soft, soft look in his soulmate’s eyes, the one that’s meant for _him_ and him alone, because maybe, just maybe, it means that d’Artagnan has found something more.

“This one?” Athos murmurs, his fingers lingering on a thin, long scar, along the length of d’Artagnan’s ribs. 

“You’ll laugh,” he says, though, he’s smiling. 

Athos shakes his head. “At these? Never.”

 _And they call me the sap,_ d’Artagnan thinks, his smile turning soft. “A man insulted my horse. But she was my father’s best you see, and he loved that mare with everything he had, so I couldn’t ignore that, could I? So, I challenged him to a duel.”

“Did you win?” Athos asks, and there’s amusement in his voice, just like he knew there would be, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

So d’Artagnan nods, grinning at the memory. “Of course.”

“And this one?” A smaller one, this time, though, this scar is wider.

“That one,” he says, thinking hard, “that one I honestly can’t remember.”

A moment passes, and the only sound is their quiet breaths.

Then, Athos speaks, voice beautiful and kind. “They’re beautiful, every last one.”

“You’re more beautiful than them all.”

And their words are soft, but their love is loud, and nothing could be more perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the second fic in the flowers au in under 24 hours. No, I don't really care if hardly anyone at all has read the first one, because these two deserve something soft and gentle, and I wanted to write it. xD
> 
> Anyways, come yell at me on discord and tumblr!  
> Discord: Cheshire#1847  
> Tumblr: [ a confused kitten ](https://aconfusedkitten.tumblr.com/)


End file.
